Tapes
by Holz090
Summary: For want of a better title, this is basically Alex's internal ramblings one night regarding exactly why she's in 1982, and what this world really is.


Alex Drake starred blankly at the array of tapes laid out on the floor in front of her. She had a fair collection now, at least 20, although the mere act of counting them suddenly seemed daunting. On each one, reams of her subconscious, her conscious, and everything in between. Hours spent talking into a tape recorder, blabbering on as though someone was listening. Not that she wanted them to listen; they'd just think she was mad.

But then, maybe she was just mad. Ever since she'd arrived in this place, whatever it was, logic had taken over. She'd slipped straight into psychologist mode, and decided to treat herself like her clients: recording every minute detail of her days, every thought that went through her mind, every emotion. In a way she was glad of them, they'd no doubt kept her sain. But what had come from them, what could ever possibly come of them? No one in this world could ever hear a single word of their contents, and if she ever did get home, if such a place existed anymore, she was sure she'd take no possessions. Sam Tyler didn't wake up from his coma wearing his leather jacket, did he?

Sam Tyler. Ha. If he was here now, she'd apologise to him, tell him she was sorry for all those things she'd thought, assumed, when he first introduced her to Gene's world. Just like anybody else, her first thought was that he was mad. Some kind of brain damage caused by the crash, perhaps? Psychologically, there were bound to be effects from such a prolonged coma. Perhaps he'd dreamt the entire thing. She'd never thought for a second that he'd been telling the truth, that these 'constructs' really did have such a profound effect on you. Never believed him when he told her how he felt the air on his face, or heard the rustle of leaves in the trees. Never believed him when he told her that he'd felt a love that he never knew possible...

If only she had, maybe she'd have been better prepared.

She'd been here almost a year, met so many people, shared so many bonds, and yet not one of those people had she been able to get close enough to to tell them the truth. How could she? "I'm from the future, honest.". She'd have had herself sectioned, let alone anyone else.

Tape number 4: Mum and Dad. 3 hours, recorded on a single, drunken, lonely night, right after she'd been forced to watch her beloved parents die in front of her eyes. Again. She'd never play them, not even to herself. Just the sound of her own voice made her cringe, made her want to hide away. But somehow the act of talking to a piece of machinery went someway to substituting her desperate desire for real human contact. After all, these people weren't real. They couldn't be, or everything she'd ever believed in was wrong.

Gene was the bullet in her brain, that had been her first thought. Sam had told her, in their final conversation before his suicide, that in order to get home, he had to destroy Gene – he was a cancer. This time he was a bullet, and he had to be removed. But from the moment she'd seen the date on Gene's computer, July 1981, her entire reason for being became to save her parents. She'd stop their deaths, then destroy Gene. But best laid plans and all that, and somehow had become blurred along the way. Her parents had died anyway, she'd failed them again, and by the time any thought of ruining Gene crossed her mind once more, she knew she couldn't do it. Chances are she was wrong anyway, where was her Frank Morgan?

Maybe she was just mad. Visual and audio delusions, irrational thoughts. She was probably schizophrenic, sat in some mental hospital, starring at yellow walls - The entire thing was a waking dream. Yet, as the days and weeks ticked by, Alex was starting to doubt even that. What was home? What did Molly look like? What colour were her bedroom walls? She couldn't even remember fully, like forgetting a dream. Was that all this so-called 2008 was? As if she could have brought up a child on her own, she was a mess, a useless person and no doubt a useless mother. And yet everyday she indeed did hear the leaves in the trees, feel the wind on her face. How could all this be fake and some place she could barely remember, some life 30 years in the future be real? How could the way she felt every time Gene walked into a room be merely a figment of her imagination? The mind was a powerful organ, yes, but it was also such a delicate one, so easily damaged, corrupted.

Alex sat bolt upright as the ringing of the phone next to her jolted her back from her trance. She quickly threw the tapes Back under the sofa, as though somehow her caller would be able to see her, and lifted the receiver, slowly.

"Bols. Get your skinny butt down here pronto, you're needed.".

Alex smiled and grabbed her jacket from the hanger before walking out the door. Duty calls.


End file.
